


These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends

by pastmydancingdays



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Non Fix-It, may leave you drowning in your own tears, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastmydancingdays/pseuds/pastmydancingdays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Greg first met Mycroft, he thought him a presumptuous, arrogant sod. As their relationship progressed, he thought him a lovable, presumptuous, arrogant sod. Consistent with The Fall, and extends thereafter - did Sherlock truly finish off all of Moriarty's network?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time I saw him, he was carrying an umbrella. I stared as he swung it from hand to hand, bemused by its presence on that sunny day. But I had little time to think about it as he swept into my office as if he owned it, arrogantly looking me up and down. I felt vulnerable under his piercing gaze. For a moment, I remained quiet, both shocked and intrigued by the appearance of somebody obviously very important in my lowly department. But then he spoke.

‘Detective Inspector,’ he began smartly, ‘I should like to ask you a few questions.’

Indignant, I replied – ‘Isn’t that my job?’

He bowed his head in acknowledgement of my retort, but then continued as if I had not voiced it.

‘You see, DI Lestrade, it has recently come to my attention that my- someone in whom I am interested – has recently become a component in your crime-solving career. I would be very grateful if you would keep me informed of his… progression under your tutelage. You would be compensated for your trouble of course.’

For a moment, I gazed uncomprehendingly at him, but then realised who he must be talking about. Sherlock Holmes, the newest… addition to the team was arrogant, difficult, and altogether brilliant. The suited man was giving him too much credit in implying that I was Sherlock’s teacher. The man was far above and beyond my level. 

‘Just who do you think you are demanding information about one of my… colleagues? I am not corruptible; I will not take bribes.’

Suit man’s expression deepened into something less pleasant. I could hear the bite in his next words.

‘I am a concerned party. This information would not only be advantageous for me, but also for Sherlock Holmes himself. I must insist that you… reconsider.’

I could feel my hackles rising in the presence of a threat. A concerned party? What the hell did that mean? I stared at him, gathering as much visual information as I could in case of the need for later identification. But once I had taken in every aspect of his face, I stopped and sat back in my chair. It wasn’t blatantly obvious, but I recognised some of the features. As I smiled in realisation, he looked back, visibly uncomfortable. 

‘So, you’re related. Brother?’

He raised his eyebrows in evident surprise.

‘Do you know, out of all the people I have used to track Sherlock, you are the first to notice our family traits.’  
He smiled faintly, but I could see the thinly-veiled panic in his eyes. I considered his offer. I wouldn’t take his money, of course, nor would I ‘grass’ on Sherlock when he did something wrong. However, I understood the need to watch over a sibling. Decided, I rose from my seat and grasped the man’s hand. He stood fluidly and shook it, his relief clear.

‘Look, I’m not going to tell you everything that goes on with Sherlock, but I’ll… keep an eye out, alright? I know he’s not exactly well-adjusted, socially.’

The man nodded regretfully.

‘I understand. Thank you, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I must leave now.’

As he passed through the doorway, a thought occurred to me.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘but I didn’t catch your name.’

Suit man smiled.

‘Mycroft Holmes, DI Lestrade. Now I truly must go.’

And so I watched him leave, swinging the umbrella once more.

***********************

I had almost forgotten about Mycroft Holmes by the next time I saw him, what with consecutive murder inquiries, paperwork and Sherlock’s tantrums to deal with. However, when I swung into my office six months after our first meeting to find a suited figure facing away from me, and a navy umbrella propped against the desk, I realised who I was dealing with. I withheld a groan as I sank down into my chair, muttering a sullen –

‘What do you want?’

He raised an eyebrow archly.

‘Is a ‘good morning’ too much to ask for?’

‘When I find you to have already invited yourself into my office, it is.’

‘Touché,’ he purred, tightening his hand on the handle of the umbrella, ‘It has recently come to my attention that a number of underlings in your team are – for want of a better word – bullying Sherlock.’

I stared at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing. His mouth tightened angrily.

‘Look, Mr. Holmes, Sherlock’s a big boy! This isn’t a playground, and you’re not his mum!’

‘Be that as it may,’ Mycroft snapped, ‘I have seen, and heard, many inappropriate words and gestures directed towards Sherlock in the past few months – more than inappropriate for those wishing to continue in this career.’

‘Okay, I-I know that sometimes Donovan and Anderson can get a bit out of line, but so does Sherlock! The first time he met Anderson, he announced his affair to the whole force, criticised his education, and told him not to get in his way. That is hardly professional, either.’

Mycroft sat stonily, appearing not to hear not to hear a word I said.

‘Sherlock, while continuing to solve every serious case you have on without a desire for outside recognition, is not in your employ. Despite the quite alarming frequency of calls for help he gets from you, you treat him as if he were a work-experience boy. Remember this, Gregory Lestrade, and remember it well. He is doing you a favour. And at any moment, both he and I can terminate that favour.’

And with that, as I sat there, paling, he swept his umbrella up in a flourish. Before he left, he turned to me in the doorway, eyes gleaming, and hissed –

‘I trust that you will do the right thing.’

***********************


	2. Chapter 2

After that, I didn’t see Mycroft for over a year. I had tried to rein in any overly-critical members of the team, as per his… wishes, but Sherlock seemed to be becoming more and more frustrated. That was, until John Watson appeared. There seemed to be a new light in him, and I thanked God that he had found someone patient enough to put up with his whims. But John meant a change, and so I wasn’t really surprised when he turned up again. I was just leaving to go and get lunch, when lo-and-behold, a black car appeared right in front of me. The chauffeur got out and opened the door, gesturing for me to get in. But it was only when I saw Mycroft giving me a half-smile from within that I complied. He offered me a drink inside, but I declined with my hand, rubbing the other over my face. 

‘What is it this time, Mycroft?’ I asked, ‘I was just going to get my lunch.’

‘Ah, on first name terms now, are we? Well, Gregory, to lunch then we shall go.’

He leaned forward to give the driver some quiet instructions, while I looked around the car. Christ, he must be loaded.

‘What exactly is it that you do, then?’ I asked.

He smiled indulgently back at me.

‘I hold a minor position in the British government.’

_‘Right.’_

‘Nobody believes me when I tell them that. Nevertheless, it is the truth.’

After a moment of incredulous silence on my part, the car stopped outside a rather fancy Italian restaurant.

‘Oh God, I’m not dressed for this. Oh _God,_ I don’t have enough money for this.’

Mycroft simply stepped out of the car, and strode towards the entrance.

‘Don’t be silly, Gregory, you’re with me. You look perfectly acceptable. And it is I who shall be paying.’

I muttered a few excuses, spluttering with indignation, while it dawned on me that unless he was paying, I would be going hungry.

‘Look, I feel really bad about this,’ I complained as we were seated by a perfectly-dressed waiter.

‘You shouldn’t, because I made you get in my car for a reason.’

Ah yes. For a moment, I had almost forgotten that he wanted something. For a moment, I had convinced myself that he was simply a friend. He must have seen my face fall, because he opened his mouth to say something, but I stopped him.

‘What did you want then?’ I asked him wearily.

We were handed our menus, and a large jug of water was put on the table. I smiled awkwardly at the waiter, shifting myself around him. Mycroft stayed silent until he left.

‘I presume you’re already aware that John Watson has moved in with Sherlock?’

‘Of course.’

He looked taken aback by my abrupt answer, and for a moment seemed lost for words.

‘Well, of course I have been… watching over them from afar. Sherlock seems a lot happier now that he has somebody to respond positively to his deductions with such alacrity.’

‘I just think it’s nice for him to have a friend.’

Mycroft looked startled.

‘… Quite.’

The waiter returned once more, and after Mycroft had ordered his meal, I tried to go for the cheapest dish on the menu. Mycroft frowned and told the waiter to scrap that, ordering the same for me as himself. When I protested, he argued –

‘But I know you like carbonara.’

I simply huffed and allowed him to get on with it – Lord knows, he seemed to be blessed with a fortune. The waiter left, and for a moment, he seemed to be lost for words, running his finger delicately over the top of his glass of water.

‘As much as my own research can tell me – that Sherlock looks to be better-adjusted, and away from the drugs – I don’t truly know whether John is having a real positive effect on him. I wanted to know… well, I wanted to ask you what you think.’

The last sentence was spoken in a rush, as if Mycroft was ashamed of his own uncertainty. I had half a mind to deny him the information he craved, given that once again he had basically kidnapped me from my workplace, forced me into acknowledging my economic inferiority, and made me feel like a girl on her first date. But seeing his obvious desperation and discomfort, and the finger circling ever-faster round the edge of his glass, I decided to humour him. Smiling gently, I leaned forward, and stilled his trembling hand.

‘You don’t need to be nervous about asking after the well-being of your own brother, Mycroft. If you ask me, John is the best thing that ever happened to Sherlock. He’s the only person that Sherlock doesn’t ever really hold in contempt, and he is patient enough to guide Sherlock through his moods. He’ll look after him, if that’s what you’re worried about. I wouldn’t doubt it.’

Looking back up at Mycroft from the tablecloth I had been fixated on, I noticed his eyes boring into me. Once more, as I had when we had met, I felt strangely naked under his gaze. Another man might have looked away. But I had little to hide from him. Finally, after staring for some time, he dropped his gaze, and sighed contentedly.

‘Good, I-I was concerned.’

‘I know. You have the right to be. That’s what we big brothers do.’

The meal came, and we ate unhurriedly, talking sporadically throughout. Despite our obvious differences, I couldn’t help but think that this would be a man I could rely on. A man I could be friends with. Later, when he dropped me back outside the Yard, he smiled genuinely at me, worlds apart from the stiff, lofty man I had once known.

‘I am very grateful for your help, Gregory,’ he said softly.

‘You’re very welcome,’ I replied, attempting to duck out of the car.

Before we said our goodbyes, he grabbed my arm, handing over the umbrella that seemed permanently stuck to his side.

‘Are you sure?’ I asked, uncertain.

‘Of course! I shouldn’t allow my- a companion- to get wet.’

And before I could protest, he shut the door firmly behind me, and the car sped away. Well, at least I had the umbrella.

***********************

Over the next year, we met more and more frequently, and between the appearances in my office, and the sporadic restaurant meals, I felt as if we were becoming friends. As John and Sherlock became closer, so did he and I, and for a while, things were going well. But then came that day. That awful, _terrible_ day.

Nobody could have known what a chain reaction a tiny seed of doubt sown into our minds could have invoked. I could not have known how much my actions would count towards Sherlock’s final decision. Nevertheless, when the news broke of his fall, we all felt responsible. I spent much of the first day in a purgatorial haze, helping to deal with the body, and trying to provide some kind of support for a traumatised, unresponsive John. It was only the next morning that, with a flash of horror, I remembered Mycroft. I rang, and rang, and rang, ignoring all normal social etiquette in the desperation to get a response. But it was all in vain; the man refused to pick up. Scrolling helplessly through the numbers in my phone, I came across one that I didn’t remember entering – that of Anthea, Mycroft’s changeable assistant. This time the call connected.

‘Hello, Mr. Lestrade,’ she greeted wearily.

‘Where the hell is Mycroft?’

‘He’s at the Diogenes Club… or, at least, he hasn’t left since last night. I’m not allowed in, you see.’

‘Right, thanks – I’ll get in.’

I ended the call, and in lieu of going to work – I would likely be sacked anyway – I made my way there. On opening the door, I flashed my badge at a straight-backed servant, whom without a word, turned and beckoned to me. I followed quickly, through the rooms of silent, suited men, and ornate corridors decorated with portraits, to a dark wooden door at the top of a staircase. Once there, the man nodded and left smartly, leaving me alone to knock. As I waited impatiently for an answer, I looked around me, angered by the abandoned corridor. How dare they take a grieving man and hide him away like a shameful secret?

‘You may enter,’ a weak voice said.

Apprehensive, I pushed the door open slowly to see a dishevelled Mycroft, sitting pale and wan under the dim light streaming through a small window. At first, there was a forced, rictus-like smile on his face, but when he saw it was me, he seemed to fold in on himself, dropping all expression, and staring down at his clasped, trembling hands.

‘My-mycroft?’ 

I stepped forward uncertainly, hand outstretched, but not touching his body. He made no noise, but I saw his hands tremble harder.

‘Mycroft, it’s just me – just Greg.’

Stepping forward again, I felt like I was approaching a startled deer – one false move and he could bolt. But he stayed almost motionless, bar his increasing shuddering, as I crept towards him. Finally, I managed to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he froze. Even the shaking stopped.

‘Will you look at me? Mycroft, will you just look at me, please?’

Though I had not yet cried for Sherlock, Mycroft’s lack of response was making tears well in my eyes. I couldn’t bear to see him this way.

 _‘Please,_ Mycroft!’ I cried, my voice breaking.

I held my breath as I waited for a reaction, and was greeted by him slowly tipping his head up towards me, revealing red-rimmed eyes and a trembling mouth. He gathered himself and said –

‘It’s m-my fault, you know.’

‘No!’ I gasped, ‘Don’t be silly; it wasn’t your decision, it was Sh-his.’

Mycroft let out a weak moan of protest.

‘L-listen. We once had James Moriarty within our grasp. We had him right there, hidden away from the rest of the world, imprisoned. We knew he had information, and we tried for weeks upon end to get it out of him, by any means necessary. But all that failed. The only thing that would- he would respond to me. And in return for his compliance, I- Oh God- agreed to give him bits of information about Sherlock. That’s how he did it. That’s how he fooled the world. With truth from me mixed in with his lies.’

I stared in shock at Mycroft, but he mistook my expression for one of anger.

‘I know, I know! But I hate myself more than you could ever hate me!’

And with that, Mycroft Holmes, the ‘Ice Man’, burst into tears. Sometimes, I felt at a loss when dealing with crying people, despite my job. But this was Mycroft, and I was grieving along with him, so I simply leant around the desk, and took him into my arms as best I could. The angle was awkward, and all I wanted to do was go and cry myself to sleep, but none of that seemed to matter as he wept into my chest. In time, his tears slowed and stopped, but we remained clinging together at the desk. Mycroft looked up at me miserably, and without a word, guided me down onto his lap. I started in shock at being in such an intimate position, and looked at him questioningly.

‘Your back must be hurting terribly from leaning over for so long. There are no more chairs in here.’

I was about to point out that I could have sat on the desk, but as he gazed back at me, my voice died. He looked down.

‘Y-you don’t condemn my actions. Why?’

‘Because they weren’t intentional. You had no idea what that information could have snowballed into. Please don’t blame yourself. I-if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I was the one who turned him into a fugitive, and drove him up to that roof. Me. I don’t understand why you don’t hate me.’

I bit my lip anxiously, and I felt the invading tears appear once more. A gentle hand pulled me to rest against his shoulder.

‘I could never hate you, Gregory. You didn’t mean to cause Sh-him any harm.’

But in spite of his reassurance, the tears remained. Dimly, I felt ashamed, but the hand running through my hair quietened my errant thoughts as I cried for both the man I had considered to be a friend, and for the pain of his brother, who I considered to be so much more. 

But as all things come to an end, so too did our time in the office. Later, when we were both composed, I took him out to his car, only to be confronted by a tired and angry Anthea.

‘With all due respect, sir, never do that again! We were all worried.’

Still pale, Mycroft smiled shakily.

‘Alright, my dear.’

As he was about to leave, I held out my hand to shake. He ignored it, and, leaning forward, carefully kissed my forehead.

‘Thank you, Gregory.’

He turned, and stepped into the car.

‘Wait!’ I said, ‘I-if you want, I can come over later, after I’ve seen to John. I wouldn’t want you to be alone tonight.’

He looked at me in wonder, then smiled.

‘See you tonight, then.’

I couldn’t help but feel that it would become a frequent occurrence.

***********************


	3. Chapter 3

And so it continued. My life changed dramatically over the next months, year, two years. I was (as I had predicted) demoted, my wife left me, and Mycroft and I grieved together. We split our time between our houses and John’s flat, trying in vain to console the inconsolable. Yet throughout, I felt as if we were dancing round an issue that had surfaced years ago. Now, the Mycroft I saw was eons away from the stuffy, uptight, arrogant man I had once seen, and despite our friendship status, desire was quickly making itself known. Initially, I was sickened with myself, blinded by the idea that I was taking advantage of a grieving man, and throwing the kind of relationship that John could never have in his face. But as time passed, and the sharp pain of Sherlock’s death began to fade into a dull ache, I made a compromise. I wouldn’t throw myself at him, I wouldn’t pressure him into anything, and I _certainly_ wouldn’t force my feelings upon him.

At least, that was what I told myself until the third anniversary of Sherlock’s death.

As we had done every year, Mycroft and I were preparing the visit the graveyard. There would be a silent vigil in front of Sherlock’s gravestone, and John would always be there before we arrived, and after we left. That was why, when an oddly John-less gravestone came into view that morning, we knew something was wrong. As Mycroft pulled his phone out to make a call, he turned away from me. I thought nothing of it, until a thud sounded behind me – Mycroft never dropped anything. _Ever._ And as I turned to ask him what was wrong, I was struck dumb by the appearance of two men, walking slowly towards us. They were holding hands, and while there were tear tracks down the face of one, they were both smiling like idiots. I blinked, wondering if I was hallucinating, but that yielded no difference. Sherlock Holmes was standing in front of me.

The four of us stood silently in stalemate in front of the obsolete grave, until from beside me, I heard a wrenching cry. Mycroft flung himself forward, grabbing Sherlock’s arm tightly, staring up at his gently smiling brother. It was the first time I had ever seen them not fighting. Then, slowly, Sherlock brought his arms up around Mycroft, and whispered –

‘I’m so sorry. I had no choice.’

Suddenly, Mycroft burst into tears, clutching to his brother like a drowning man did a lifebelt. Momentarily, Sherlock looked bewildered, but soon pulled himself together to comfort Mycroft. I felt a thrill of rage run through me – how dare he do this to us? How dare he do this to Mycroft? John stood eyeing me nervously, but I took no notice of his concern. Once Mycroft had pulled away, sniffing, I turned Sherlock towards me and punched him, hard. He lurched backwards in pain, but before he could fall, I yanked him back to me, and hugged him.

‘You stupid, _stupid_ boy! Three years we’ve been grieving for you! Let me look at you.’

I held him out at arm’s length, noting his more-gaunt-than-ever face, the shadows under his eyes, and the bruise on his cheekbone. I felt a little ashamed, but surely it couldn’t have bruised so quickly? He answered my unspoken question tightly.

‘No matter, Greg. You just happened to punch me in the same place that John did a few hours ago.’

I let go of him in surprise.

‘You called me Greg!’

‘Yes, well… I thought it was about time.’ 

He bent down to hiss in my ear.

‘And if your intentions for Mycroft are true, then I assume you’ll soon be part of the family.’

I blushed pillar-box red, hoping Mycroft wouldn’t notice, and moved back, allowing Sherlock to gravitate towards John again. Behind me, Mycroft took in a shaky breath.

‘So I suppose your three-year absence was for something more than a holiday.’

Sherlock’s self-satisfied smirk disappeared in favour of an expression of true remorse.

‘I never meant for it to take that long. I have a lengthy explanation, but I assume that you’d rather I get straight to the point. When I was on the roof of Bart’s, Moriarty kindly explained to me that there were sniper rifles aimed at you, and unless I killed myself, you would all be shot. Moriarty then killed himself, leaving me to decide your fates. I could not, and would not let you die; therefore I took the only logical, yet most difficult course of action. Using a variety of information that I have acquired over the years, and Molly Hooper’s help, I managed to outwit the snipers, and unfortunately, all of you, and left to eliminate the threat on the Continent. In doing so, it seems I caused an extortionate amount of grief, and for that, I truly apologise.’

Mycroft and I stared at Sherlock in disbelief, but he quickly composed himself.

‘Well then, brother, I suppose I will forgive you. However, if you ever try such a thing again, I will lock you up in my house for the rest of eternity.’

I shivered at the tone in Mycroft’s voice, but Sherlock simply nodded.

‘I am sorry, Mycroft,’ he said softly.

Mycroft nodded back, and gestured me to his side.

‘You shall see Gregory and I tonight at 221B. I suggest you co-operate by taking time out of any… _activities_ and opening the door.’

I saw John blush furiously as we turned and walked back to the car in silence. Inside, Mycroft directed the driver to his house, and sat back stiffly. If there had been no tear tracks on his face, one could have assumed that there is nothing wrong, but I knew him better.

‘Myc?’ I asked quietly, ‘What are you thinking?’

He looked at me in apparent confusion.

‘There is no right or wrong answer – I’m just confused as to why you seem to be closing up again. I know it’s painful that Sherlock has deceived us for three years – I feel it – but you’re not showing anything. Help me out here, love.’

My brain stuttered to a halt as I realised what I had ended my sentence with, and I cringed with horror, waiting for him to throw me out of the car. Instead, he looked down at me with an unreadable expression on his face, and murmured –

‘I was just thinking that, despite the last three years apart, John and Sherlock seem to fit right back together as before. And it’s apparent to everyone that they are… together.’

He sighed sadly.

‘I’m just thinking about all the time that has been wasted on grief, and could have been spent on something altogether more satisfying.’

He didn’t look away as he said this, and I felt my heart thud in my ears in nervous anticipation. He couldn’t possibly mean… could he? But then, his hand covered mine on the smooth leather seat, and I was no longer uncertain.

‘Gregory, though I am no consulting detective, I am as skilled as - if not more so - than my brother in the science of deduction. So I am fairly certain that you won’t reject me. And yet I am… nervous, despite our comfort in one another’s company. For quite a long while now, I have been having more than friendly feelings towards you, and with Sherlock’s return, I can act upon those feelings. I care for you immensely – I hope you know that, and know its value, for I care for only a select few. And I would hope, with your consent, to have a relationship.’

I stared in incredulous silence, shocked, but rejoicing all the same. Noting my expression, Mycroft seemed to panic, and pulled back his words.

‘I am sorry, Gregory, I had thought that you-’

He stopped as I grabbed his tie, and pulled him towards me.

‘Mycroft? Shut up and kiss me.’

I saw him smile widely, before he took my face between his hands and kissed me soundly on the lips. I had not kissed a man in many, many years, but even so, I knew he outstripped them all. I struggled for dominance as he leant over me, moving his lips over mine powerfully, and I soon gave up, allowing him to slip his tongue in to explore my mouth. _Only to this man,_ I thought, _would I ever surrender._

***********************


	4. Chapter 4

A relationship with Mycroft was never going to be the easiest thing in the world, but although we argued frequently, there was never any prospect of splitting up. Before long, I had moved in with him, and thanks to Sherlock, I was reinstated as Detective Inspector, leading a cowed Donovan and Anderson once more. Life seemed to revert back to how it was before – with a few obvious exceptions, of course. And I was happy, happier than I had ever been before in my life. Yet no matter how much I tried to forget, our lives were fraught with danger, and lulling ourselves into a false sense of security was the worst thing we could have done. Unfortunately, that is exactly what we happened to do.

It wasn’t a particularly remarkable morning, the day my world fell apart. Mycroft, as per usual, had dragged himself out of bed at the crack of dawn, kissing me, and telling me he loved me before he left. I had been so half-asleep that I doubt my response made any sense to him, but he left chuckling all the same. The sky was overcast and gloomy as I drove to work, expecting another day of endless paperwork. It was almost exciting to get a call through, allowing me to escape the monotonous banality of it all. One body found by some kids in an abandoned warehouse, four gunshot wounds, no evidence of anything out of the ordinary. Texting Sherlock, I imagined that this wouldn’t be a late-nighter. How wrong I was. As usual, Sherlock burst into the warehouse like he owned the place, pulling a tired-looking John behind him. 

‘Where is the body, Greg?’

I pointed wordlessly towards the corner, knowing it was pointless to try and stop him tampering with the evidence. He examined the body, looking rather smug, but then froze. He lurched back to his feet, and John and I stared in concern.

‘Greg, where are your lackeys?’ he snapped.

I turned to gesture to Anderson and Donovan behind me, but they had disappeared.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I said, ‘could they get any more unreliable?’

But instead of insulting the pair like normal, Sherlock stayed silent, nostrils flaring, and his gaze became more alarmed.

‘The killer is still here.’

John pulled his service revolver out of his pocket instantly, while I looked around in disbelief.

‘Why would a murderer stay at a crime scene, Sherlock?’

‘I don’t know, but the fact remains.’

Suddenly the door burst open, and we all whipped round defensively, only to see a flustered Mycroft with an armed bodyguard by his side.

‘Sherlock, you missed one.’

‘What do you mean I missed one?’

Mycroft mouthed a name –Moran – and the atmosphere darkened.

‘I shot Sebastian Moran in Orléans a year ago. How could he possibly-’

‘You didn’t check if I was dead though, did you Sherlock?’

I froze as the voice came softly out of the shadows. A dark figure approached us slowly; in the light, I could only see the whites of his eyes, and his gleaming Cheshire-cat smile.

‘Funny that. Would have thought you would want to make sure before you came back to Johnny-boy.’

He stepped forward again, and bathed fully in moonlight, I saw that he was heavily armed, and the muzzle of the gun pointed to each of us in turn. There was no reply to his statement, but from behind there came a shout and a thud. Mycroft’s bodyguard had managed to snatch the gun from John’s hand, and knock him out with it. Sherlock’s face drained of colour as he ran to John, quickly checking him over.

‘My God, Moran – you’re lucky he’s just unconscious, because if he was dead because of you, there would be nothing to stop me ripping your jugular out _with my bare hands.’_

Moran simply smirked as Sherlock laid John’s head down, and stalked back over towards him. Meanwhile, the bodyguard had gone grey, standing next to Moran with his head down.

‘How much is he paying you then? Mycroft is generous enough with his employees, isn’t he?’ Sherlock asked incredulously.

The guard didn’t answer, so Moran did for him.

‘Threats can go a long way… you of all people should know that.’

Unarmed and helpless, Mycroft and I stood together, eyes flicking between Sherlock and Moran.

‘I’ve waited four years for this, Sherlock Holmes. You destroyed my life.’

‘Destroyed your life, Moran? You destroyed your own. Did you think that you and Moriarty would spend the rest of your lives together in domesticity? Did you think that he loved you? He was a psychopath, who happened to find you a useful commodity, and I pity-’

The next few seconds were a blur of action. Before I could think, Moran cocked his gun and fired straight at Sherlock, and I was shoved backwards by a running Mycroft. It wasn’t until Mycroft dropped to his knees that I realised that he had been hit. With a moan of horror, I flung myself down beside him, disregarding entirely a pallid Sherlock and movement coming from where John lay. I felt numb as my shaking hands moved over him, and when a second shot cracked through the air, I half-hoped it was Moran firing at me.

‘God, Myc,’ I croaked, one hand on his face, the other searching for his shirt buttons to get to his chest wound. In my panic, I couldn’t find a grip, so instead tore at the expensive fabric, revealing a deep entry wound too close to his heart. Too close. And then I was pushed to one side, as John appeared, trying desperately to help. I didn’t know how he was no longer unconscious, I didn’t know why Moran hadn’t shot us all, and I didn’t know why Sherlock was frozen in place at his brother’s feet. I didn’t care. With bloodied hands I cradled Mycroft’s face, noting with horror his fluttering eyelids and the blood spilling from his lips.

‘Oh, please, _God Mycroft,_ don’t… please, just, _please-’_

‘Gregory,’ he spluttered, wincing as John’s hands pressed his wound, ‘please don’t upset yourself. I-’

He cut himself off with a violent coughing fit, resulting in more blood sluggishly pouring from his mouth.

‘Remember that I love you, if you remember nothing else.’

His hands shakily reached up to stroke my cheek.

‘Don’t talk like that, Myc, you’re going to be fine!’

‘N-no, I’m not, and you know that, love,’ he whispered, ‘please don’t cry.’

I hadn’t realised that I was, until he mentioned it, and I clung to him desperately.

‘I love you, Mycroft, I love you, please don’t leave me!’

I cared nothing for decorum as I pressed myself against him roughly, and as I kissed his lips, I felt the iron tang of blood pervade my mouth. His grip on my hand was loosening, loosening, as he fought to stay awake, back arched in pain.

‘Everything of mine is to be divided between you and Sherlock; I would never leave you without.’

‘Mycroft, stuff the money, I would give it all away ten times over for you to stay with me, _please!’_

Sherlock held tight to his other hand, telling Mycroft that he loved him, telling him that he never meant for him to be hurt, telling him that he was sorry. Mycroft squeezed his hand in reciprocation, smiling genuinely. I fought hysteria, wanting to stay strong for him, but it didn’t seem to be working. Faintly, I heard sirens approaching, but the hope that they gave me disappeared as John sat back on his heels at a loss. I cried endlessly as I gathered Mycroft to me as best I could, whispering _I love yous_ into his ear.

‘I-I love you too, Gregory, so much. Turns out that caring is an advantage after all.’

I felt his pulse weaken under my fingers, and his breath became shallow, eyes finally closing.

‘No, no, no, no, no! Mycroft, Myc, open your eyes, _please,_ please, Myc, _please!’_

Dimly, over the sound of my heart pounding in my ears, I heard the sirens wail outside, and the doors slam open. Too late, entirely too late now. I held tightly to Mycroft’s cold hand as the paramedics bundled him onto a stretcher and put him in the ambulance. I held on as the ambulance pulled in at Bart’s. I held on until I was forced away by the doctors. I had no words for them. I had no words for anyone.

***********************

In the aftermath, a group of nurses stood eyeing me sympathetically at the far end of the corridor. Grief-stricken as I was, I neither wanted nor needed to interact with them. But when one stumbled forward to hand me a familiar object, I couldn’t avoid thanking her in a whisper. My hands ran gently over the wooden handle, so carefully concealing the blade hidden within. It was cold and inanimate, but still his, and for that I would always treasure it.

"That stupid umbrella. Always that stupid umbrella." 

I let a tear run down my face as I gave a short chuckle, my eyes probably still red from crying. I had few tears left to give. Beside me, John silently ran a hand down my arm, ending at my white-knuckled fist, which he gently squeezed. I was grateful for the absence of sound, so deafened was I by the ringing in my ears. 

Had I even the right to grieve in this way? Yes, I love- loved him more deeply than I had ever loved anyone before. Despite the little time we had, I felt as if we would spend the rest of our lives together. Now we would never have that chance. But as I looked to my right, seeing the cold, indomitable, unfeeling Sherlock Holmes come undone, I wondered whether I could claim all this pain as my own. Sherlock was trembling, face in his hands as his shoulders shook with wrenching sobs. John had the most tender look I had ever seen on his face, as he wrapped himself around the taller man, bringing his head down to his chest, and stroking through his hair. Mycroft was Sherlock’s brother, and in spite of their obvious animosity, I knew they still loved one another.

And yet.

Though Sherlock was evidently in great pain, though he wailed in terrible grief, showing the most emotion he had likely shown since his childhood, there sat John beside him, still able to comfort him, still able to love him. _Still alive._

I, however, would carry on alone.

***********************

_FIN_

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first ever Sherlock fic, and so I've decided to put it up here, in the hopes I may get some reviews, positive or negative, praising or critical. Hope you enjoy! :)


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